A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret suffering, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music.
(Soren Kierkegaard)

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

What She Said

Contrite and quiet she satrobed entirely in blackno shades of greyher sombre confessionssoliciting assistanceBut her words were minedown to the last syllableher sins, my ownin bright lights staring shamefacedly backAnd now the beamexposed, awkward and cumbersomemust be extricatedfrom the eye of my soulAll their storiesare strangely constructedto fly in my facesplashing with cold precision waking meas I teeter on the edgeSo I listen to what she whispered"I will not be his Wednesday Night Slut"And what of me?Shall I forfeit this midweek oasis of peril?my desert is tired of your mirageI want to drownto come up prune-yand saturatedwith you soaked into every poreI want to be wetwith your love